Fantasy
by Not Days but Knights
Summary: After House declares “Oh my God, you’re sleeping with me,” Wilson can't help but think about the truth which may or may not exist in that statement, as well as how it has changed his personal feelings as he lies in bed with Amber that same night.


Pretend

Pretend?

**Characters and Pairings: **Wilson/Amber, mentions of House

**Rating: **PG-13 for sensuality, light language

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything related to House MD; David Shore and Fox do.

**Summary: **After the famous epiphany in which House declares, "Oh my God, you're sleeping with me," Wilson cannot help but think about the truth which may or may not exist in that statement.

House's voice rang in Wilson's ears as he entered the familiar living room of his girlfriend, Amber Volakis. He had been absolutely floored – bewildered, and overwhelmed by the scene which had dramatically unfolded only two hours before. House had performed his typical, "friendly" duty of crashing his date with Amber, bombarding Wilson with an invasion of personal privacy. Naturally, at first Wilson had been entirely annoyed by House's typical behavior, but his overall outlook on the entire situation had drastically shifted in one moment as House dove into his analysis of Wilson.

"You like that she's conniving," House had said, listing so many other obvious traits of Amber, who had been asserting her power in order to get a table for dinner more quickly. Wilson could only blush and attempt to uncomfortably acknowledge everything which House was mentioning within that moment. But as House continued to speak, Wilson's stomach had lurched uncomfortably as he felt himself drawing frightening parallels between the blonde figure shoving menus into a poor waiter's hands and the growling, unshaven figure of House. Something was amazingly eerie about House's words as they came spilling out of his mouth in excited understanding...

"Oh my God," House had then said, cutting across Wilson's discomfort. "You're sleeping with me."

Suddenly, everything had clicked into place as the vague parallels Wilson had drawn quickly became inextricably linked. As he scrutinized House's then horror-struck face, Wilson was given the twisted impression that Amber and House were ultimately one and the same. Whoever received the higher insult from this connection remained to be seen, and was ultimately, entirely irrelevant compared to the personal realizations that had rooted both House and Wilson to the spot. They had continued to stare into each other's equally bewildered eyes for a long, awkward pause before Wilson, at last, attempted to open his mouth to say something – _anything –_ which would break the painful tension which had suddenly arisen. Instead, House had handed Wilson the glass he was holding, and fled from the restaurant, leaving Wilson to fumble half-awake through a dinner-date with Amber.

His mind had wandered throughout the entire dinner, and although Amber seemed to understand whatever he said, he felt as though he were speaking another language as his tongue twisted in seemingly foreign formations, trying to form coherent words. His mind buzzed with a bizarre static, causing him to have extremely slow responses to Amber's attempts at conversation. Why was it that House's statement had bothered him so much?

As he currently stood in the center of Amber's living room, this question continued to haunt him as much as it had at dinner. Something had drastically changed within him during the past several hours, and Wilson felt a sudden neediness for House's presence. He wanted nothing more than to talk to House about it – about everything. Instead, he found himself within Amber's home, staring at her as she came back from the bathroom, wearing an old, scratchy-looking sweater and a pair of grey sweatpants. He allowed himself to steal a glance at his watch: 9:45.

Wilson pulled out of his haunting thoughts as Amber walked towards him, holding her arms out lazily, expecting Wilson to fill her the void formed by her outstretched hands. Instead, Wilson continued to stand, his hands on his hips as he gazed at the floor. He felt Amber's hands slip around his waist on either side of him, fitting her arms between his arms and sides. She pressed her face gently at the collar of his shirt and let out a small sigh. Wilson only continued to stand awkwardly, attempting to pull his attention onto Amber, but he could only think of House.

Amber suddenly looked up, inches from Wilson's face and scrutinized him carefully.

"What's wrong?" she whispered. If she had whispered with this much concern in her tone weeks prior, Wilson's heart would've melted from infatuation. Now, all he could do was purse his lips together, look away and shake his head.

"Nothing," he said, his voice shaking despite himself.

Amber removed a hand from Wilson's waist, raising it to run a hand down Wilson's face. Wilson allowed himself to close his eyes at her touch, attempting to focus on her soft fingertips. Yet as they slid down his face, he could not help but imagine them to be larger, more calloused fingertips, lacking in the slight sharpness that Amber's fingernails gave as they ran up and down his face. As her hands continued to travel along his face, Wilson felt a flash of newfound emotion as he could've sworn he felt calloused fingers replace Amber's. He opened his eyes quickly, almost expecting to see someone other than Amber standing there, looking passionately into his eyes.

Amber leaned in, gently closing her eyes as she began to kiss Wilson. Her lips met his own, and he felt Amber attempting to have him kiss her back. She held him tightly as she kissed, still pleading for Wilson's attention. Yet, Wilson could only stand there, his eyes wide open as his lips remained stuck on Amber's. Amber moved away from his lips, kissing his cheek, nose and chin before pulling away in confusion. She studied Wilson's apathy, trying to smile as she hid her puzzlement. At last, she came to her own personal conclusion, backing away from Wilson so that her hand could grab his arm, leading him to their bed.

Wilson allowed himself to follow blindly, stumbling over his own feet, often sliding across the floor in his socks. As he walked, he could only stare at his legs as they moved rhythmically in sweat pants: left, right, left... his feet thudded across the floor in a twisted form of a death march. After what felt like a tormenting eternity, Wilson felt himself being pulled into Amber's dark bedroom, stopping at the foot of her bed as she stood invitingly in front of him. Nonetheless, Wilson felt his apathy rising as he continued to stand disengaged in front of Amber.

In a frustrated huff, Amber seemed to yank Wilson on top of her, simultaneously allowing herself to fall backwards onto her bed. Naturally, Wilson fell with her, landing on top of her as the bed sank in, welcoming their weight. He felt Amber's hands grasp the back of his head, running her hands through his hair and along the back of his neck as she began to kiss him yet again. Like a shell of a man, he allowed himself to be kissed, but barely responded to anything Amber did. He felt Amber's hands reach the hem of his sweater and realized they were fumbling with it, attempting to pull the sweater off. He mind-numbingly obliged, allowing the sweater to slip off, revealing his bare skin. Amber's soft, small fingers slid along his back, occasionally pressingly slightly too hard, giving her hands the resemblance of someone else with rougher hands.

Wilson felt himself give a quick intake of breath whenever her fingers slipped, giving them that coarser feeling, and his mind bizarrely flashed to House. In an instant, with House's face of realization floating at the front of his mind, he felt himself pressing his lips firmly against Amber's. He then traveled from her lips to along her neck, slowing reaching the collar of her scratchy sweater. He allowed himself to bury his face in her sweater. As he did so, he was reminded of House's unshaven face, and allowed himself to imagine what his face would feel like against his own, soft skin.

He inhaled deeply, finally feeling slightly relaxed. As he took in air, he could've sworn he smelled a hint of perfume, slightly musty and yet fresh. His mind wandered again to House as Amber's hands continued to run long his back, still occasionally pressing more roughly against his skin. Perhaps House's cologne smelled similar to this...

Wilson suddenly opened his eyes, raising his head slightly as he pushed himself up and rolled off of Amber, laying on his back beside her. Amber turned on her side to look at Wilson.

"What's wrong, honey?" Amber asked sweetly, allowing herself to run her forefinger along the middle of Wilson's chest. Wilson flinched in discomfort at Amber's touch – or perhaps it was because she'd called him "honey". What _was _wrong with him? Why was he pretending to be with House rather than enjoying his time with Amber? Why was it that suddenly, Amber seemed to represent a thin disguise for another person who had never excited him before in the romantic sense of the word?

"_You're sleeping with me," _House's voice rang through his head yet again, and Wilson brought both of his hands to his face, as if he could press the sentence out of his mind. _No, no I'm not. _He fought with himself. _Amber's the best thing in your life, don't let House deceive you... _but House's face fluttered to the front of his mind yet again, and he could not help but summon his imagination to create theories of House's smell, the touch of his face, his fingers...

Suddenly, the small, light finger which was stroking his chest so sensually was suddenly replaced by that familiar, larger, calloused hand. The feminine figure of Amber lying beside him switched to House in shorts and a white t-shirt. Amber's room seemed to dissolve around him as Wilson summoned the memory of House's bedroom from those long months during which he had roomed with House. He felt his heart racing despite himself as he created this mirage, and he suddenly saw no objection to the touch of Amber's lips against his own, wanting more. The sweater constantly rubbing against his own, bare chest was of close enough resemblance to House's face to satisfy his imagination, and he allowed himself to smother Amber in kisses, from her lips to her neck and shoulders. In response, he felt Amber's soft lips press against his own, then move seductively from his chin down his neck, onto his chest.

House had come to life within Amber (despite their obvious differences) and Wilson was embracing the opportunity to understand his own emotions, his confusion and his excitement as it roared within him. As they continued to passionately caress one another, exchanging kisses and tight embraces, Wilson's imagination continued to blaze within his mind, keeping reality at bay.

After a while, the passion in the room seemed to die, like a fire in the fireplace as the coals run low, and Amber slowly collapsed onto Wilson's chest. Wilson lay on top of the bed, absent-mindedly stroking Amber's long, blonde hair. He picked up strands of her hair, allowing it to slowly slip through his fingers as if he were sifting sand. Her hair was extremely fine, and had a feminine glaze to it which created a good definition of the opposite feeling that her sweater gave off. He ran his hand down her back, brushing his hands over the scratchy fabric. Within his mind's eye, House's eyes were closed in sheer bliss as Wilson caressed his face, from his forehead to his unshaven cheek and chin. That face was so much more familiar than Amber's and provided a different, more welcoming form of comfort.

Wilson gently rolled over, guiding Amber's tired body onto her back next to him, allowing her to reposition herself to prepare for sleep. Wilson placed a small kiss on her forehead, almost in a form of regretful apology. He could almost feel himself whisper, "I'm sorry," but the words fortunately never came. Amber sighed sleepily as Wilson set her down, and she curled up slightly on her side, grabbing a pillow from the head of the bed.

"Good night, James," she muttered sleepily.

"Yeah, 'night," Wilson replied, returning to his position on his back besides Amber. He lay there in the darkness, gazing up at the ceiling fan as it rotated in its hypnotizing fashion. He felt his hand absentmindedly rest at his sternum, pressing lightly against the bone which comprised the center of his rib cage. In a very twisted form, House's hands and lips had been there only moments before, and the idea did not disturb him. He had enjoyed his childish fantasy, although now he knew he had to force himself to realize that that's all it had been: a childish fantasy.

Yet, in his heart, as he shivered from the waves of emotion fluttering through his body, he knew that it didn't have to be.


End file.
